Asphodel: The Second Volume of the Muse Chronicles

by David P. Jacobs

  Icarus said these words to protect Lucas but also knew that, by telling the truth to Jonas, it would make Icarus more of the person that he personally despised.

  Meanwhile, the apprentice walked the halls of the house checking in on the sufferers. He looked toward the closed attic door. He reached and pulled on the string. He brought the wobbly stairs to the ground. While climbing, he considered the story of Sisyphus from mythology – an ancient king who had been punished by the earliest Gods due to his deceitfulness. The chastisement in the afterlife had been an eternity of rolling a gigantic boulder up a steep hill only to watch it roll in reverse. The act of repeating the same action had been the king’s damnation through time immemorial. The apprentice considered its significance to the street name in which this house had been erected.

  The attic was awash with yellow light as he clicked the string. In front of him was Annette’s attempt at delivering a catalyst to Phillip: the displayed star-charts, the propped astronomy books, the dangling mobile and the message written in the glow-in-the-dark stars urging her client not to forget his past. The apprentice studied her work. He shook his head at her guile. He knew that he was trapped in this house with an enemy he never should have made alliances with, but it gave him a sense of hope in knowing that the muses were at work to make things right.

  He stood at the attic’s window and stared at the clamoring thunderstorm. Streetlamps shone like beacons against the murky darkness reminding him of a quote that he had once read by Tennessee Williams: “We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it.”

  There was no leaving this house, it seemed. Jonas had kept him on such a tight leash that even the smallest inkling of insubordination brought wrath. The apprentice left the display as he had found it and turned out the light. He descended the stairs.

  The glow-in-the-dark stars picked up on the flashes of lightning that ignited from the small rectangular window which gave the hopeful insinuation of resounding authority.

  CHAPTER 20: MADEMOISELLE EVANGELINE REMEMBERS

  Light extended through the kitchen bringing the dusty countertops into view. It had been years since Nathaniel had set foot in this space and the memories of that distant night signaled his synapses. As he trailed his fingers over the countertops leaving streaks within the dust Nathaniel compared how he had seen the church kitchen back in 1999, before rescuing Dorian Gray, to how he saw it now. Seeing the kitchen in the present was like surveying cryptic cave paintings during excavations of uncharted subterranean cavities. There had been church dinners, chili cook-offs and bake drives in this kitchen which were removed from the deprived skeletal cookhouse.

  A blue envelope awaited him by the stove. Nathaniel brushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose and lifted the envelope with both hands. Management, catering to the common starvation, had graciously supplied the ingredients to the muses’ upcoming meal. Management also supplied cleaning products which humored Nathaniel’s need for sanitation during preparation. Nathaniel set to work cleaning the kitchen counters. He scrubbed the sinks, de-clogged the drains, polished the excess metal countertops, made the glass windows spotless of grime, mopped the floors, changed out the light bulbs and even scraped the minutest of particles from the tiniest nooks and crannies. When he was satisfied that the church’s kitchen was suitable for his chef work, Nathaniel consulted the ingredients.

  Management had placed the fixings for Puttanesca – a pasta dish including garlic cloves, ripe tomatoes, pickled capers, Greek olives, red pepper flakes, tomato paste, freshly-washed anchovy filets, copious amounts of olive oil and several boxes of spaghetti noodles. There were also loaves of crunchy Ciabatta bread. Copper cookware had been supplied to the mix alongside a series of cooking utensils. Nathaniel possessed the elements to succeed in his culinary endeavors. He took full advantage by filling one of the pots with water and turning on the stove’s heat.

  “You’re cooking?” came a voice behind him. Nathaniel looked over his shoulder to find Annette who had snuck into the kitchen with inaudible footsteps.

  He turned his eyes to the boiling water and said nonchalantly: “Muses have to eat, Mrs. Slocum.”

  Annette came behind him and peered into the pot.

  Nathaniel quickly repositioned himself between her and the view.

  Annette didn’t care. She propped herself against the counter facing him and touching two garlic cloves with unwashed hands.

  Nathaniel looked over the frame of his glasses to the garlic cloves that Annette held. In a non-verbal command to surrender the cloves, he held out an open palm.

  She placed the cloves into his hand and stood attentively beside him. “What are we making?”

  “Puttanesca,” Nathaniel said dryly, placing the cloves on the counter.

  “Gesundheit,” Annette said quickly.

  “No,” Nathaniel shook his head. “Not a sneeze, Mrs. Slocum. A spaghetti. Spaghetti ala Puttanesca. Its exact origins are unknown but there are those who believe that it was created by an unnamed shop owner who didn’t have enough ingredients to make a dish for his hungry patrons. He threw various odd food elements together from his kitchen and thusly created, by sheer happenstance, a legendary, tangy sauce. And then there’s the association of it being linked with female prostitutes in the sixteenth century. The word ‘Puttana’ in Italian translates to ‘whore.’ The recipe of the pasta dish was considered simple and quick to make between their risqué clientele’s visits. It was a pasta dish that essentially could have anything put into it furthering the connotation of it being associated with the ladies of the evening.”

  A brief silence came over him as Nathaniel stared into the pot of water. It reminding him of the puddles that had accumulated on the day that Jonas’ wife had come to Nathaniel during an afternoon rainstorm.

  “You think of Evangeline a lot, don’t you?” Annette wanted to know.

  “She crosses my mind more than I’d like,” Nathaniel reached for the ingredients. “She’s everywhere I go and in everything I do, whether I want her to be or not.” He sighed, taking a garlic clove and crushing it with the flat edge of a wide knife. “But it’s my burden to bear.”

  As Nathaniel removed the skin of the garlic and grounded salt onto the cutting board to soak up the garlic juices, Annette asked “Whatever became of Evangeline, Mr. Cauliflower?”

  While roughly chopping the garlic, Nathaniel began the account of Evangeline’s occurrences. He told Annette, from his perspective, how Jonas had found the reincarnation of Evangeline during college.

  *

  Evangeline had taken the guise of a young woman named Roberta who looked, and sounded, almost identical to how Evangeline had appeared in 1808.Though Nathaniel couldn’t understand how Evangeline had fallen in love with the reincarnation of the murderous painter, he ascertained that Evangeline alleged Jonas to have been the reincarnation of Nathaniel. The disheartening disillusionment was realized as she saw Nathaniel in the crowd on her wedding day. It further broke Nathaniel’s heart as Evangeline birthed two children with Jonas.

  Due to these circumstances, Nathaniel took a secluded position at the state archives in the preservation department during the week and worked part-time at the circulation desk of his local library on the weekends. His life was enveloped by books and articles which provided him a faithful substitute to Jonas’ deplorable romantic relationship. Nathaniel tried, and failed, to think less of her every day. Though he shied from his unreturned thoughts for her, Jonas’ wife found her way back to Nathaniel.

  She came to his apartment unannounced one afternoon in 2009, while Nathaniel was thumbing through an anthology of short stories and making a lunch of spiced tofu, cooked Brussel sprouts and steamed butternut squash. She carried a checkered-cloth draped wicker basket of banana nut muffins which, she assured him, was a gesture of peace. He accepted her muffins and opened the front door. They sat with th
e muffins at his kitchen table for several moments unsure what to say. Conditions had changed drastically since the mailbox on her last inspiration. He didn’t announce this, of course, as he was a gentleman and didn’t want to upset her. She seemed upset enough as it was and tearfully aired her personal business. According to her, Jonas was emotionally distant and, because of that, Jonas had not touched her in over a year. She was starved for affection and needed to be touched. She needed to be held. Nathaniel politely inquired why she didn’t seek the attention from her two sons, Ajax and Josiah. She diverted from his question by telling Nathaniel that she had habitually thought about the night that they had made love in 1808. She anxiously yearned to revisit it.

  “You shouldn’t be saying these things to me.” Nathaniel pushed the untouched basket of muffins back to her. “You’re married and I’m not a home-wrecker.” He started for the kitchen door to show her out. She carefully touched his hand. To Nathaniel, it felt as though a shot of electricity had passed from her fingertips.

  “Please, Monsieur Cauliflower,” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes and sighed longingly. “Why are you doing this to me, Mademoiselle?” He asked her.

  She crossed in front of him.

  She unbuttoned his white cotton shirt one button at a time and opened it to reveal his chest. She hesitantly traced the outline of his chest with her eager fingertips. He shuddered at her touch and was angry at himself for feeling it. But then he gave in. He wrapped his arms around her middle and drew her to him. The lavender perfume she wore was the same that she had worn in 1808. Her hair swayed and tumbled the same way it had back in Paris on that fateful night. She fumbled for his belt buckle as he lost control and tore at her blouse. He spun and laid her on the kitchen table where they both shook off the rest of their clothing. As they made love, the basket of muffins spilled to the linoleum floor.

  *

  As Nathaniel was telling Annette this information, he kept his hands busy with the rest of the sauce. He added in the capers and anchovies, bringing it to simmer. He unsealed the boxes of pasta, emptying them into the boiling water.

  *

  After exhausting themselves from their lovemaking, together she and Nathaniel lay naked and motionless in bed. He felt the warmth of her sinewy skin. He relished in the idea of having Evangeline in his arms again and, though he knew it wouldn’t last, he soaked in this moment. It had nothing to do with a victory over Jonas – no. It was more the idea that Evangeline loved him. It was the satisfaction in knowing that all of his pining and searching for her over the course of seven lifetimes had been for not.

  And then she opened her mouth to speak: “You must have loved that Evangeline woman very much.”

  Nathaniel tilted his head to look at her, confused. Roberta looked slightly different. Roberta told him that Jonas had talked about Nathaniel’s unrequited love for Evangeline and Jonas had further explained to his wife that she had looked like her. Roberta was not Evangeline, she thoroughly explained. She had gathered as much information as she could from her husband to abuse Nathaniel’s need to be with Evangeline.

  She looked at him and said, “When I saw you on the day of the wedding, you were attractive and I knew that I had to have you at any cost. So when Jonas grew distant, and I grew more desperate for attention, I played the role of Evangeline. Don’t you think I played it well, Nate?”

  He jumped out of bed and reached for his boxer shorts, piecing himself together. He stared at her, unsure of how to feel. Roberta ruffled the covers and nakedly approached him.

  “Nothing has to change, Nate. You and I can still be lovers. I need someone with your stamina and zeal. You need someone who looks like Evangeline to love and worship. It’s a win-win situation.” She reached out to touch him but Nathaniel withdrew.

  “Get out of my house,” Nathaniel whispered. “Please leave.”

  Roberta’s stance of power deflated and she rolled her eyes. As Roberta dressed and left the house with her basket of uneaten muffins she looked at Nathaniel and said “You’re never going to find the real Evangeline, Nate. You know that, don’t you?”

  *

  With the sauce simmering in its own pan and the pasta boiling, Nathaniel paused for effect. He stirred the sauce and dipped a spoon into the contents bringing a taste to Annette’s lips with his hand underneath.

  Annette tasted the sauce and moaned slightly at its deliciousness.

  “What does it need?” he asked. “More crushed red pepper flakes?”

  Annette shook her head. “It’s perfect.”

  Nathaniel nodded and washed the spoon under the faucet from one of the nearby sinks.

  Annette said to Nathaniel, “You know what Roberta told you wasn’t true?” She looked into Nathaniel’s eyes. “You’ll find Evangeline, Mr. Cauliflower.”

  “Oh,” he sighed. “I know. Believe me, I know.” Nathaniel placed the lid on the sauce to let it simmer a little longer. “After that day, I found myself at the library thinking about Evangeline. Though I worked with books and was acquainted with the library’s collection, there was one book that hadn’t yet been presented . . . until one afternoon. As I was shelving books in the fiction section under the ‘Cs’ I touched a leather-bound book in circulation. It was an aged copy of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales with its damaged spine facing me. I pulled it from the shelf and held it in my hands. As I did, I was instantly reminded of being the Russian immigrant Yuri Abramovich in the 1920s. I recalled how, on that fateful night, when Evangeline had warned me not to seek out the painter, she also told me that she read Chaucer every fall in remembrance of our love affair in Paris. I flipped through the pages. It had the same weight, look and feel from when I had seen it in my second life. Evangeline had bent the corners of several pages where she stopped reading for the night. It was as if she was a phantom reader right along with me leaving traces of her own reading habits. I didn’t check the log. I wanted to savor this moment and treasure the idea that perhaps this book had been handled by Evangeline’s reincarnation. I wanted to know what she had read during each autumn as she remembered our love affair. I read the stories and absorbed the characters, the themes and the plots, connecting to the past in the only tangible way I could. Turning the pages, I felt my hopes rise. Each time I found a bent upper corner of the page, I envisioned Evangeline and how she would have closed the book while retiring for the evening in the past. We were on a journey together reading the same book in two separate timelines. The feeling indescribable, Mrs. Slocum! Can you imagine?”

  “I suppose I can . . .” Annette said breathlessly.

  “When I read the last sentence I closed the back cover and slept with it at my side. The following day I went to work at the library and took the book with me. I researched the call number and checked the log for who had borrowed the book. Evangeline had read it every fall when she had been alive. I figured that, if her reincarnation had been out there, perhaps that person unknowingly borrowed it. My hunch was verified.”

  He looked seriously at Annette. “There was one other person who touched that book in all the years that the library had kept it in the collection.”

  Annette spun with her back facing Nathaniel, unable to breathe. “Stop it,” she gasped. “Please stop.”

  “You know who this other person is, don’t you?” Nathaniel asked.

  With her back still to him, Annette stammered. “Please, Mr. Cauliflower, I don’t want to hear!”

  “I found that it was checked out, every fall, by a housewife to a new-and-used car salesman. It was checked out . . . by you – Annette Slocum.”

  “That’s a coincidence!” Annette told him, gripping onto the countertop. “Anyone could have picked up that book during the fall and read it!”

  He circled around to face her but Annette spun facing the opposite direction. “Why did you check that book out every fall, Mrs. Slocum? Out of the entire collection, why did you choose that book to borrow over and over?”

  “I . . . I
. . . I don’t know . . .” There were tears in her eyes.

  “It’s because you, Mrs. Slocum, are the reincarnation of Evangeline.”

  “But I don’t remember being her, Mr. Cauliflower! I remember being detective Redmond and Mrs. Slocum. Before that, there’s nothing! I’m not . . . I’m not . . .” but the more Annette tried to convince herself of the fact the more her memories changed. As she stared into the kitchen, Nathaniel undid his tie and top collar to show the opal necklace that he had worn since Evangeline had disappeared. Annette turned to him and saw the opal necklace. She looked at the stone, then at Nathaniel’s eyes, then back at the stone. She shook her head slightly, quivering. A look of concentrated consideration of the truth passed over her face as she looked into Nathaniel’s eyes. Annette opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. Still, the words came out nonetheless and this time with an unanticipated subtle French accent. “Monsieur Cauliflower?”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle Evangeline . . .”

  CHAPTER 21: RHAPSODY REEXAMINED

  The rain hit the quiet house like wooden sticks repeatedly striking a snare drum. Deep rolls of thunder boomed like wielded timpani mallets pounding skin-stretched copper bowls. It was a steady battery that eluded to Jonas’ percussive, yet disruptive, frontline ensemble. Though he had been trapped within Jonas’ scheme, the apprentice had also been orchestrating his own plan to reverse the hateful discourager’s disturbed arrangement.

  With the hood around his head and the jacket zipped around his figure, the apprentice inched to Jonas’ open study door. He found that his overlord wasn’t occupying the space. Tiptoeing across the threshold, he was careful to avoid any loose creaking floorboards that may have given away his position. Blackened fireplace logs struggled to keep the dwindling ashen embers aglow and a brass banker’s lamp, with a green glass shade, had been earlier switched on atop the study’s desk. They supplied the apprentice ample light to sort through the collected paperwork. He discovered the Weather Wizard on the fireplace mantle but paid it little mind. It was another device he was after: the Lite-Brite board Jonas had been using to capture his mistreated victims.